


SOULEATER: GUNSHOT TOCCATA

by vilifyd



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: this is my first fanfiction lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 10:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14668704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vilifyd/pseuds/vilifyd
Summary: The Bloody Moon has fallen. An old god has dropped like a corpse from Heaven, bearing a mountain of sins and sustained only by a promise. Dawn is breaking, and the sunrise comes like the sound of a gun cocking on a loaded chamber.It's been three hundred years. A new god is forged and begins its ascension, but let's be real, this jackass is definitely not living past twenty.GUNSHOT TOCCATA.ALTERNATIVELY TITLED; SHINIGAMI MAKER'S USER MANUAL.VOL 1 START.





	1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 00.**

**PROLOGUE 01: A MEANS TO AN END.**

 

  “ I need you to promise me. ”

 

He remembers it quite clearly, the way she proposed such a request on her deathbed. Even when ivs were branched across the expanse of the room from head to toe, she still carried a type of might that couldn’t compare to any other-- not that she, herself, was a comparable person anyways. She attempts to speak words to contest some of his statements that say ‘save your strength, Maka’-- brisk, soft, only to somberly agree with a select few of them whilst reduced to a wrinkled husk, lips squiggling, brows creasing as she absentmindedly grabs fist fulls of the sheets beneath her frail form, arms hanging down limply against each side of her flank but all she can manage is a serious, _indignant_ expression, retracting less than a centimeter away from his touch as she beckons him closer, breath barely a whisper to his ears. **“ Find them. ”** He pauses. Find _who?_ **“ Get them off of the moon. Make sure they’re safe. I don’t care how you do it, just-- find them..** ** _Kidd_** **. ”**  But she cannot maintain her frown whilst being so close to his face, it is a _second_ sun, those eyes, the balm for her deeply-troubled soul, natural alleviation which is why her comment was a muttered susurration, nought but a whisper complimenting his own, it’s as if they are speaking in an ancient language where only their fine-tuned senses can understand. “ **You understand, right? How this is important—** ” Cue her coughing, _wetly_. How does he presume that someone who _also_ knows the tribulations of warfare and loss would be bewitched by such mindless(?) prattle? _If only_ things were that simple. He wants to understand just what she means by this, and if he’s _hearing_ correctly. **“ Maka, you can’t possibly mean that I-- It was** ** _their_** **choice, there’s no way I could-- ”** _Did this make him an idiot for agreeing?_ Perchance in the puzzled eyes of the reckless, of those whom do not feel the hallowed currents of madness beneath their soles, or seek to design sanctuaries bathed in auric _gloom_. His duty was a pain to verse, a pain to untangle in the hidebound view of the faithless, his sunken soul to wash against empty shores where none lasted to share the sand. Maka had continually reminded him of her anger towards _She_ whom commanded from below. The Witch of the Bleak and Barrow, The Golden Snake, _The Mother of Black Blood_ — the figure of the many problems they all faced back in their yesteryears; frightfully silent yet forgiving all the same. And like many others, her gaze would look down to an Abyss she chose to see, down into the pit where _Crona Gorgon,_ child of _Medusa_ lay forgotten.

 

       He both regretted and valued their ending. His hand sweeps over her eyes, closing them. A final farewell and a closing to her last request, one he will strive to complete.

 

_     300 years later. _


	2. PROLOGUE 02: A BLACK CURTAIN RISES.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return of the end. Crona Gorgon makes an appearance after many years.

 

\----   I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

        The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars

      Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

      Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

      Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

      Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,

      And men forgot their passions in the dread -- **Lord Byron**

 

**Many changes have taken place since then. Both grand and sad alike. He tries not to ponder too much on the past without making it come forth unto the present. This is one of them.**

 

**____________________________________________________________**

 

**“ Lord Death. ”**

 

**“ Ange.”**

 

 **The exchanges of their names are given out of mutual respect for one another, the black-haired woman stepping up the grandiose staircase leading to her superior who keeps his insouciance about himself and holds both of his hands behind his back as if he had been expecting her for quite a while, brows arching subtlety as he trains auric pools on her form.**  Ange G. Bon, a fair woman who had stayed alongside her elders the entirety of her late teens, now 22, who is one of the sole death scythes within the school, was a complicated one. She appeared to be about six-foot-four, a steepling woman with bright green eyes, coming from a descendant of Haiti. Her attire consisted mostly of a suit--in regards to the ever-present dress code that had reigned over this school for centuries, and a large trench coat that had a tail parting in three separate ways to mimic the signature ‘teeth’ for Death’s insignia. As he had scheduled, she arrived exactly on time: three seconds after the stroke of midnight. _This is a plan in motion_ , one that had lasted for eons which needed to be completed to the end starting _now_.

 

 She glances up, continuing a conversation that never started.

       “ _But_ , surely you must know the consequences of-- _No_ , you _need_ to know the total risks of going up there ! There’s no telling how you’ll be able to get back, you’ll end up trapped, or _worse_ \-- ” “ I already _know_. ” Kidd replies, with just a tinge of irritation in his tone. “ Boss, I **know** you _know_ , but do you really ‘ _know’_ what it is you’re going up against ? It’s been years ! Who knows what’s been cooking up there ? ”  Yes— she were right,  such a mission is a cataclysmic, ferocious thing to have in the lead. Ever since his promise he had never thought of anything above it, though, and would rather loathe himself than not act on it, _as late as he is_. The guilt comes in the form of a cold wind, invasive and prying, wafting through his cloak in ebony waves, eyes ever fixated on the target above laughing back down at them both. The comfort of his school will remain no more if he does not settle things and get rid of the very problem that has been haunting the world for as long as he can remember from his yesteryears, peace not _being_ a virtue, war not _being_ satiated, even during the calmest of storms. “ It has been a while, yes. But during those times the sky itself was not _leaking_ , Ange, remember that _well_. This is something beyond a _normal student’s_ comprehension, we need to be on our wits if we’re going to succeed in the rescue of **the demon sword.** ”   **Crona** \-- a name he hadn’t uttered in a while, one he refuses to rehearse to ears that were unknown to it, falls empty in his mind. Hands still tentative, motions still motionless; he flares only within eye, gazing outward toward her side as she, too, watches the moon’s deadly grin.  “ Boss,” she reaffirms, paying homage, showing _obeisance_.  “ We should be able to get there in time, I think. If all goes well, this should last a good nine hours. Maybe **eleven.** _I don’t know_. ”

 

 He nods. From beneath his sides as summoned, miniature jets begin to ignite. Ange, without being asked to do so, shifts into her weapon form: a grand scythe, silver with gold embedding in the blade itself that was in the shape of the very moniker Kidd respectfully went by.  “ Let us embark. It won’t be long until the kishin finds a way to come down if we do not stop it from doing so. ”

_____________________________________________________________

 

 Did he have a semblance of fear anymore ? _Of course._

 

 Fear is obsolete. Where one is granted the taste of danger, another experiences being the one giving it. He’s fought far too long to not realize this. It is a proposition that has him shaking his head to himself— _again._ War-hounds; since when did the last lays of _fear_ stagger the rip-roaring bellows of their howls? They were bred not to _feel._ To not question what fabricated their hide into twisted yet _beautiful_ variants of modern-man. They were _arrogant._ Spiteful, slippery and sharp— treading along the timbered cliffs of a decrepit world and slaying the _cur_ whom dared question their authority. The dogs whom were silent merely chundered of their excellence in hushed corners of their barracks. Pretending to be humble, truly mad; the dark waves of greed lapped around _all,_ their polluted shores ever reaching them even when company died. The populace still had much to learn about human empathy, but what could be said about those whom were born _fearless?_ Or perchance, his ego which was a precarious little thing that harboured more _fear_ than the next man beyond the horizon.

 

    He supposses there are good reasons to _abhorring_ this area with an all given might and consciousness, the oxygen is dense with sodium, there are forte fulminations _screaming_ throughout the air akin to a scorched symphony that echoes through the endless mass, screams stammering, somehow engraved within the blood itself and continuing to screech their agony even as the noise is bereft of a body; and with each body that had _evaporated—_ in which aggrandized audioception perceives—Kidd makes a mental tally of how many lives were taken on that day. The agitating thought alone is enough to send him spiraling into bouts of _intense_ ire and yet he displays the smoothest amount of control he has _ever_ projected, breathing even, golden irises leveled and _trained_ unto the darkness, posture pristine as he prepares himself for impassioned battle. The inky tar that sticks to his boots and grasps his arms pulls away with each step he takes with a newfound sense of utter boldness, regardless of the ever-present wavelength thrumming in the distance, pulsing heavily, emanating the very thing he had fought all those years ago to keep from spreading across the expanse of the world: **Madness.**

 

And it is with these tricks that he’s treated with information. With each clash of souls there comes a disturbance. A disturbance so _uncanny_ that it is difficult not to notice.Yes— there is something at work here. Something crude and _daring,_ sapping his sense of time away and slowing down his limbs.

 

 **“ Stay alert. They’re near. ”** So she had sensed it, too.  A burbling mishap of impending conflict and pain, still ever-present within the confines of this hell. Where there lacks oxygen, there’s the suffocating feeling of being watched, and he knows they’re gazing down upon them both at the moment.  And so every long stride has a carefully calculated landing, making use of the time he has as he endeavours to find the source, feeling himself wheeling away from a native sense of space, his own charge becoming more defensive with each sluggish state of his movements, the regal beauty of his grace something thwarted by whatever ploy they had snug up their  sleeve. It is a conundrum that is far too complex to solve at the moment, and thus he reacts by channelling a haste portal every few seconds to drop from surface to surface without tendrils groping at his legs. “ Enough hiding, we can _‘see’_ you well enough ! ”

 

**A chuckle.**

 

 **“** ** _Can_** **you ? ”** Another snicker.  If there was ever _any_ incertitude within their intent they _forthrightly_ make it known with their sinister intonations, voice perversely risqué via the tantalizing _idea_ of his _gruesome_ demise, an inebriating _promise_ they can hardly contain their enthusiasm in germane to seeing his body mangled and maimed by their thorns of seething, chortling _darkness_. From above, a face manifests from within the coagulated goop, similar to that of a mask surfacing beneath the crooks of a river. When they smile, there’s no teeth, just _blood_ that seeps onto Kidd’s face as he looks upward. “ I think it’s too late for games, you know. I saw _you_ far before you saw _me_. ” It seems so that they have both been made **fools** of by this _pernicious deity,_ their emotions trifling, caution pervading through the air _despite only needing_ their _incompetence_ , their _unnecessary_ need to fight at every whim and jeer to rise and usher the annihilation of their lives— Crona was their name, and they intend that _neither_ forget it.

 

 **“ I am bloodied. Every inch of my body and every beat of my soul. Don’t you remember,** ** _reaper-boy_** **? ”** An opportunity was seen and selfsame _seized_ , Crona is titillated to _finally_ be able to rid his unsightly presence.  They know he’s heard them before. These solemn, _oddly caring_ utterances that are shining against backdrops of scorn, struggling within a nest of vipers where the iniquitous ones bred and congregated beneath their own laws of morality. They strike out; crowned with their own feathers of valour, a fluttering light, dappling his head with sentiments that only his _father_ ever crooned. “ That’s _wrong_ , Crona. You’re still _you_ , no matter how far-gone you seem to be at the moment. I’ve come to save you from the pain this must have brought. ” _I’m sorry I couldn’t do it sooner, I’m sorry you had to watch from below and not know what had happened to your dear Maka._ “ I want to _help_ you ! ” He pleads, despite knowing the answer this would bring on their behalf, as their mind is muddled with lies and the soul of Asura-- which seemed, along with ragnarok, to be absorbed _entirely_. _Does this make him an idiot ?_ Perchance in the puzzled eyes of the reckless, of those who do not feel the hallowed currents of fear beneath their soles, or seek to design sanctuaries bathed in auric _gloom_. Kidd had touched the _untouchable_ during his long-lived life, only seeming to prove his position further as he steadies the hilt of Ange’s scythe in hand. Howbeit he had been trying arduously to keep up with them, the hardest he ever has, it’s a _struggle_ staying put on his feet when they keep pushing him _backwards_ with their imposing strength which _forces_ him to not so much concentrate on striking them but _defending_ himself without making it obvious that he is on the defensive.

 

 _“ Don’t lie to me._ I am an abomination. You’ve just come to kill me, because I couldn’t keep the blood up. It’s leaking. I’m **leaking** . You’re all going to _drown_ .” Crona barks. Their animalistic instincts had taught them so. It filled a hole that no artisan wished to fill, promising them _far more_ than the enervated words of humanity. At one time they were all insubstantial _cracklings_ of a weakened mind. All harbouring a second-motive that grinned viciously behind purported sweet smiles, their ravenous eyes glazed a pastel blue honing in on something they _truly_ desired. Now, instead, they’re met with the ugly face of someone who would have rathered _killed them_ without second thought.

 

 Crona begins to gain form once again as they seep out from total blackness. **"I am fear. ”** They reiterate the monochromatic shadow’s last phrase with an ephemeral burst of thorns, all racing toward him until they, without any forewarning, spear through the surface of his torso at _lightning speed_ . Kidd feels everything flip, too distracted by the frontal attack to pay any attention to whatever thaumaturgy they had chundering beneath his feet, and his own _aggression_ becomes a momentary downfall. _Left becomes right, up becomes down— it_ becomes clear that his movements are the opposite of what his brain wills, the fire of his semblance erupting with a _madness_ that sharpens the furrows of his brow and has him making mistakes left, right and centre— quite literally. He becomes increasingly disoriented, stumbling and _bleeding_ every time a miss would grant them an opening, striving to distance himself but he only ends up pushing himself _closer. “ BOSS ! ”_ Screams Ange, her concern _skyrocketing_ despite Kidd’s grip never faltering, even after being thrown _hundreds_ of meters away from his initial spot. Rising to his feet with a wet cough, the back of his sleeve is wiped against his mouth as blood profusely seeps into his clothes. His cloak was destroyed, his suit-- ruined, yet contrary to popular belief, this does not stop him. His mind, _perhaps for a moment,_ but his legs _do not_.

 

  “ DON’T--- _WORRY_ ABOUT ME ! **JUST FOCUS !** ” Calculated, his swings are precise, but Crona seems to be faster as their body is reminiscent to elastic, dodging each blunt blow with a _nonchalant_ expression. This is expected of them, as unpredictable they are he does not hesitate in improvising his next moves which play luck at working successfully, making use of the time he has as they endeavour to recover from their previous attack, his fists tightening fiercely at arm’s length as he closes the gap between them and _strikes, hitting his mark_ . A sense of triumph already tight in his chest, the resonance-ridden conduits beneath his skin _inflame_ with a thrill that transcends any other. This isn’t out of self-gratitude, but rather the idea that he did, in fact, have a _chance_ at besting them.

 

   Shields, blades of light, shinigami martial arts-- it was not surprising that his soul is amplified by Ange’s own _antidemonic wavelength,_ smoothing out any and all bumps during both resonance and normal combat alike, optimizing accuracy in _every_ aspect of the word.

 

He notices something right away with each dodge and burn, however.

 

**They seem weak.**

 

 _Reasonably so._ Centuries of being up here, rotting, dissipating with each passing moment as the cruel grasps of time-- _nothing but time_ \-- ever change in their midst, a result of lookinhg as though they hadn’t aged _since._ It came in the form of a pink blur, but Kidd would note that their hair had grown past their shoulders and their physical stature was, remarkably, even _more_ frail than before. Their attacks had suddenly lacked in the normal _hyperspeed_ and agility shown before, as if their opening attack was their first and very last to go off on. He would question this, but refrains from biting his own tongue as Crona’s voice gets more boisterous, more audacious in its pitch and it’s highly upsetting; he doesn’t know how to react to their sudden bout of sorrow-- but they do, their strikes grow sloppier and juvenile, mirroring their _incredibly unstable_ mindframe through _shrieking_. “ Why won’t you just leave me alone ? I  don’t _want_ to leave, I did you all a favor by staying up here ! I still have yet to reflect on my sins because **_SHE STILL HASN’T COME BACK_** **!** ” Indeed those words hurt worse than his wounds, the blossoming contusions and bruises riddling his body like the stars amongst a nighttime sky and the only thing Kidd can do is _flinch_ when he’s pinned into the cold surface of the moon. Hovering over his body, Crona doesn’t even need to bend over to pull him to his feet, as their arm elongates from the spot in a twisted feat of popping the joints from their sockets, almost tearing the collar…. He heard the slight rasp of material ripping. Painfully his throat constricts and his body heaves, forcefully coughing up copious amounts of almost burgundy blood, fluids that lie inside of ruptured organs and his eyes clamp close, releasing the disgusting globs, pieces of his stomach, epithelial and muscular tissues being heaved up and catching in between stained ivories and yet he _still_ finds the will to move his mouth.

 

 “ **You speak as if it’s truly the means to an end,** **_Crona_ ** **. ”** In that frozen second, Kidd sees their eyes flicker from the ground to him. Their face is unreadable, no confusion, no hint of anger.  Ange’s voice is heard in the backdrop; something along the lines of “ _Boss_ , now’s your chance ! ” before a hand abruptly tears through their chest, ethereal whites and blues dancing along his forearm in what seems to be a liquidized portal he’s made out of the cavity of their ribs.

 

        **They’re being held in place**.

 

 **“ Soul resonance ! ”**   _Fwoosh_ \-- !! S piritual hues illuminate what little light there previously was, inky liquid surrounding them in walls now _critically blown out of proximity_ until the stars and sky alike greet them, something he’s sure Crona hasn’t had the luxury of seeing in _eons_ . His arms scoop under them, settling them within the crook of one arm, and in an all-too-sudden lift he is momentarily spellbound by the comprehensible lightness of their body as they struggle and push and shove at him, _shrieking_ their discontent at his invasion of their soul’s wavelength being thrown out of balance via his _own_ . Kidd can feel the sorrow through Crona, yet with each cry of disdain he continues to struggle at holding them down, one hand pressed into the narrowness of their face as his fist rummages around to find what little remnants of **_him_ ** he’s looking for: **_Asura_ **.

 

 Initially, Kidd knew what this meant. No longer was the demon weapon merged with any remaining souls that had interfered with their essence, because Crona had completely, utterly absorbed them **whole** .The only thing that made remote sense after succumbing to their misanthropy, getting _darker_ , more _wicked_ , forsaking their heroic plight for obliterative alternatives was to become the very thing they had feared all this time-- something Kidd refuses to let go on any longer, _not while he still stands_.

 

One flick of his wrist is all it took to activate the madness wavelength from within,  an _explosion_ of energy releasing from the kishin and enveloping them all-- the force of the impact sending them flying back toward the earth in a graceful freefall that could only have thwarted silence by the sounds of Ange’s shrieking ( “ **OH MY GOD ! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!? BOSS, BOSS, BOSS-- WAIT WAIT WAIT !** ” ), already having broken out of weapon and quickly latching onto Kidd’s leg; tears, snot, and saliva pour _upward_ into the sky. The descent does not affect Kidd, however, even as hair is blown back and feet struggle to regain balance his jets apply _last minute_ , even as deadly animosity continues to emit from Crona’s body as they settle forth unto the ground-- their whole being thrashing, convulsing, blood seeping out of eye sockets and ear holes in a manner of utter _shock_. Had Kidd the ability to sweat, it would bead down from his forehead, because his fist grips around the glowing orb until it’s directly torn out, and if there was a burst of raw fear emanating before, it would not compare to what has happened now; madness envelops the woods they fell in and kills trees instantly, the jaw of the moon from above falling just as they did and crashing into the surface of the earth with a bold clamber of nearby debris.

 

Like a freshly beating heart, the soul of Asura is successfully removed. A damning thing, one that caused so much pain, now evaporated in the palm of his hand.

 

**Soul extraction complete.**

 

 **“ Ange.** ” He turns, out of breath, **“ Call for backup. Tell them we’ve** **_finished._ ** **”**

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello ! Thank you so much for choosing to read my story, this is a work I've been developing ever since I was sixteen years old now blooming to fruition ! I've never written a fanfiction in my life, so as we go along, please review my chapters and enjoy !


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